A Word Made Flesh

Scraps from my journal indicate that this Christmas I have been dealing with anxiety…. I’m not going to psychoanalyze it but suffice to say, what I have needed most is peace of heart and mind and the rest of God that encompasses both the body and the soul.

in one entry I wrote: “I am parched for beauty though beauty surrounds me.” I sympathize with the woman at the well in Samaria who said, “Please, sir, tell me where I can find this living water that I might not be thirsty again…” How is it that we as believers can be full of the Spirit of God and have the promises of Scripture at our fingertips and yet lack in experiential depth the reality of the words of promise we have been given? Again in my journal I wrote, “I am so thirsty for you, God…I feel that i must be surrounded by Living Water – but if it doesn’t get inside of me and impact the core of my being – if it doesn’t affect change in my life – what good is it?”

The Word of God, Scripture says, is ALIVE and ACTIVE. It is not like other books. You may read it as such, not holding it with authority, not reverencing it as though one passage might forever change you – but that is what it is – it is as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel…and the one opening it must be prepared to be operated on.

Perhaps the times when I am not changed, when I read the Bible but leave as thirsty as I came, perhaps when I carry anxiety more than a moment or an hour is because I refuse to let the scalpel of the Word cut me open – penetrate heart and soul and all that is within me?

Pruning is painful. Changing is painful. Letting go of the illusion of our control over a thing – whether it be our own life or our children or our work or our future – may very well feel like jumping off a cliff – suicide. And in a way, it is. We die to self. We rise to Christ. We let go, and give over, and release a care (truly release it) to God and think we will fall to the ground. And right before we do, our hearts in our stomach and our minds whirling, we are caught. and held. firmly. And the color, the light, the peace, the joy, all enters in, like a rushing river of abundant life. But we have to jump, we have to risk it all to receive it all.

The Greater Goal of Gratitude

 

“The greatest thing is to give thanks for everything. He who has learned this knows what it means to live. He has penetrated the whole mystery of life: give thanks in everything.” – Albert Schweitzer

It’s January 2 and I know that lots of people are thinking of their goals and resolutions for the new year. I normally think more about this topic at what has become our family’s “turning of a year” during the week we spend celebrating our birthdays and anniversary at the Cabin in the mountains. It has become our yearly set time to remember God’s blessings, reflect on His faithfulness, and prayerfully consider our commitments and goals.

But November and December were rough months in many ways for me and my family as we went through 2 ear infections, 3 bouts of the stomach flu, colds, and fevers. For over a month, it just seemed like sickness had decided to camp out in our home. But I am happy to report that it didn’t stay forever. We are all home, well, and healthy as a horse. Unfortunately, there were many hours and days during this “month of sickness” that my attitude reflected my children’s health – it was sick. Sick of being sick and dealing with sickness and other various troubles. There were times I hate to admit I was just plain ol’ pouty. But as most of my blogs report:

When You are Weary from Loving

My arms are full. Not of laundry or piles of dirty dishes, but of covenant kindness – my little Chesed Joy.

My fourteen-month-old beauty is in a stage where apart from doing her little waddle-walk across the room, the only place she wants to be is Mommy’s arms. Her arms reach out – she doesn’t speak and yet her whole being cries “hold me!”
I am weary and she is growing – 20 something pounds of compact love, eager to be scooped up and cuddled and carried and kissed. And I feel unable as I look at her to do it again for the 157th time today. Every square inch of my body hurts and it seems I can’t keep on picking this child up.
But I do.
And I hold her close – and she wraps her chubby arms around my shoulders, burrowing her head full of soft hair into my neck, laughing in delight at my embrace.
In the moment, that moment, one of 157 moments, I feel no pain. I only feel her and her love and my love all meeting into one beautiful hug.
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